The Spiralling Tower
by I find my presence embarassing
Summary: Young witches and wizards are born every day in Canada and the United States. Where do they go? What is their their school like? And how will it shape these young magical people?
1. Prologue of Moons, Hares and Teeth

The Spiralling Tower.  
~~~ I am not writing about Harry Potter. I am not writing about writing about Albus Dumbledore, Gelert Grindewald, or Tom Riddle. I am not writing about Hogwarts. I am, however, writing within the magical world that JK Rowling created. Enjoy.

Teeth-the pearly white beacons of doom. Many excellent sources claim that being born with a full set of teeth is the sign of a baby infused with magic.

So when Mark Jackson Williams (eight pounds, six ounces) was born, it was no surprise that with one look at his gums the elderly nurses crossed themselves and hurried to help some other immediately expecting mothers.

However, the young presiding doctor (with a slightly more liberal science-focussed upbringing) had never seen such a case, though he'd heard of them. 'But what can you do?' he thought and shrugged, and sent the healthy newborn home with his mother.

Little did that doctor know of other mysterious omens that were happening all over the continent, seemingly every day. A few weeks prior, a boy had been born with a birthmark that seemed to be a detailed map of he moon. A girl had a conspicuous aversion to needles. There had been a definite increase in the population of hares on a northern Canadian island at the time of a child's birth. And a young woman had broken the ice in a lake, staying underwater for an abnormally long time, only to give birth at the surface.

"We like to show off a bit," an old white-haired woman smiled, as she watched a pen write names all by itself.


	2. 1 Milk and Tea

Mark had never thought of himself as interesting. He'd been born, learning to walk, talk, feed and clothe himself. He was the only child of two working parents, divorced before he could remember. He'd started school. He'd got decent (but not spectacular) grades - a product of his chronic boredom.

He did, however, possess a wonderful imagination. He didn't even realize how amazing it was.

Once, during a particularly dull Show-and-Tell, he found himself dreaming that something, anything interesting would be shown. Mark found himself less and less interested, or for that matter, docile. Finally, when the class clown, Petey, stood up and announced that he had 'a really big beetle', Mark exploded. He stood and slammed his fists on the table, shouting "WHAT SPECIES?!" He didn't even notice the silence following his remark, as an entirely new possibility was flashing before his eyes. What if it wasn't a beetle? What if it was something else from the forest? A gnome, a gremlin, a fairy? Anything was presenting itself in a whole new way.

The silence was broken with the sounds of scratching at the inside of the brown paper bag in Petey's hand. All eyes slowly affixed their gaze to it as a small hole began to appear in one of the corners.

Something poked a tiny black leg out.

And then, with a great ripping noise, **something** came pelting out. Suddenly, screams filled the air and general pandemonium ensured. Amidst the overturning chairs, fleeing girls, and Petey standing still as a statue, mysteriously covered in scratches, Mark could have sworn he saw a tiny humanoid form, black and winged.

At the after-school meeting (with the principle, all the school's teachers, and Petey's parents), it was generally determined that the incident had been an accident and, free from reprimand, Petey gained an insatiable interest in insects.

Mark traded weeks between his parents, and he just couldn't help noticing that his houses had qualities of certain objects. He was convinced that his father's house looked like a teapot (with the smoking chimney at one side), his mother's apartment building like a milk carton.

Then came the day that his parents unexpectedly showed up in the same car to come pick him up from school.

"Honey... sweetie-," his mother's sickly sweet voice said, while his her overlong painted fingernails clasped his arm. She'd turned around in her seat, her fake eyelashes fluttering.

"-I'm moving in Rochelle," his father's firm voice fell on Mark, while his hands remained planted on the wheel.

"But... Rochelle lives in the USA! That's a whole other _country_!!!"

"Michigan isn't that far away. You'll be able to visit. The summer, when school's over, or during the Christmas break-"

"I thought we'd agreed that **I** get him during Christmas!" Mark's mother shrilly interrupted.

Mark couldn't believe what was going on. It didn't bother him so much that his parents were moving farther away from each other. The distance might do them good. But if his dad moved then Mark would loose his teapot. Grandpa had taught Mark that equal parts milk and tea made the best tasting drink in the world. When the doctors had told Grandpa that he could no longer drink tea, Grandpa hadn't survived, and neither would Mark.

"You just can't accept that I've moved on!" "You've moved on? YOU'VE moved on?! HA!" Mark didn't even notice the yelling. He just got angrier and angrier at the loss of his teapot until the car stopped at Mark's father's teapot house.

"WHAT THE F-"

At first Mark didn't even notice the difference at first. Then he realized that his house didn't _actually_ have a handle. Nor did its walls _actually_ bulge. That was just the way he'd always seen it.

His father was still yelling when his mother drove away.

His father was _still_ yelling when his mother called, in a somewhat similar state.

From what Mark could hear across the room, there was 'a bloody cow on the side of her building'.

Mark stayed at his mother's house as building inspectors examined the teapot. It was true, there was a cow on the side of his mother's apartment building. It looked sort of like a milk logo. It also looked quite a bit like Mark's mother.

"I'll never sell another apartment!" she wailed, "No-one wants to live in a Milk Carton!"

Mark privately disagreed.


	3. 2 The Uneventful Birthday

Mark's birthday, like most of his perceived life, was mostly uneventful. He'd spent it at his aunt's house, as both his parents thought that he was staying with them for Christmas, and the other for the day of his birth. He'd got the usual little cars and socks and things. 'I'm eleven,' he thought privately, 'I can read.' 

He was eventually dropped off at his milk-carton-apartment-building. With a smile of satisfaction, he made his way up the stairs to his unit.

His mother was sitting on the couch, near the door, staring intently at a little piece of paper. She started when he walked in the door.

"Honey," she said slowly, "have you been talking to any strangers? I promise I won't get mad."

He thought carefully. "Not unless you include 'thank you for holding the door' or 'thanks' to the cashier who sells me bubble gum, or asking if I can pet someone's dog."

"LIKE HELL" His mother was suddenly on her feet, her hair flying about her.

"...Mom?"

"Someone knows where we live. They wrote you a letter. I don't know what to do, I just don't...I don't...what..." 

Mark's interest overrode any sense of worry. "What did it say?"

"What does it matter?! They aren't family, why do they know you? Why do they want you?"

"Did you even open it?"

"What? No! They want to hurt my baby!"

Mark snatched the letter away from his mother. She didn't even seem to notice, as she had just dissolved into sobs.

_To whom it may concern (namely Mark Williams),_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Winnowridge Academy of Excellence._

_Winnowridge is extremely selective. We pride ourselves on having gifted individuals brimming with potential for our world._

_Once again, our congratulations! We hope to see you in the coming school year!_

_Mr. Columbius Hardorf, Principal_

"Mom? MOM! It's a school."

"Your school? Why didn't they call?" His mother had a very audible sniff.  
"No, a school. Winnow-something academy. They"re offering me acceptance, I think..."

Suddenly his mother sobered right up. "Winnowridge? Your uncle Claude went there. He liked it. He's in politics or something, we don't get to see him much now..."

"Winnowridge Academy of Excellence.." Mark read, wondering what sort of place it would be.

"I'll have to talk to your father. But from what I can tell, it's an extremely prestigious school."

"Of Excellence..." Mark read again. He had the feeling that the last word had been added later. It just didn't feel right.

"Oh, how exciting! And to think I was worried you were being stalked!"

Mark was lost in his own little world. Whatever Winnowridge sounded like, it didn't sound boring.


	4. 3 The Winking Man

The trouble with Mark's eleventh birthday was how early it was... January.

According to his mother, Uncle Claude had received the letter on his birthday as well; only Uncle Claude's birthday was in October. Mark couldn't stand the suspense already, he couldn't imagine what Uncle Claude must have gone through.

_Gifted individuals brimming with potential..._

Mark worked extra hard in school. He felt that he needed to, that he needed to prove that he was the best of the best. He fought his way through the slog of boring day after boring day after boring day.

The snow melted, grass grew, and trees flowered. Mark's family grew increasingly worried at the lack of word from the school. The flowers deteriorated, petal by petal, and Mark worked harder and harder.

Finally, it came; the last day of school, and with it, report cards. Mark had never achieved grades like this before. His sense of pride was diminished, however, by the empty mailbox awaiting him at home.

"It's in the mail," his mother (or father, as he was pleased by the news as well) would say every day, "it's coming."

But the lazy summer days drew on and on, dragging Mark kicking and screaming towards the inevitable; the letter was not coming, he was not going to Winnowridge, he was fated to lifetime of boring lessons and dull classrooms.

Finally, a week before the new school year, he marched up to his mother, who was seated on the chesterfield, reading a fashion magazine

"I'm not going." "Not going to what, sweetie?" "School. I'm not going." "This is about Winnowridge, isn't it?"

Mark didn't answer. He just glared, with his hands clenched.

"Honey," his mother began the speech she'd been preparing for weeks, "Winnowridge is a very selective place. Maybe they thought it would be a better fit for... someone... else..."

Mark's mother had seen the look in Mark's eye.

"Listen, sweetie, it's not that bad. I bet Claude didn't have such a great time there after all!"

The light bulb in the lamp beside her exploded.

After about thirty seconds of silence, Mark's mother said, "...I'm sure it just overheated."

Then came the sound of the buzzer.

Mark's mother punched the button, answering in her sickly sweet voice "Yes?"

"Judy! I'm glad you're home. It's Claude. That older brother that you never seem to call?"

"Claude! Oh dear! Here, let me get the door-"

"Don't bother," the voice said, and cut out.

Before Judy could walk to the coffee table to straighten it, a knock came from the door. Judy stared in apparent disbelief.

"I'll just let myself in, shall I?" came the muffled voice from the other side of the door. Without waiting for a reply, the door opened, and in stepped Uncle Claude.

Uncle Claude was a somewhat portly man, and did not posses the tallest stature in the region, or even the room. He had a very round nose, which matched his round face and stomach. He wore a large hat with a simply enormous plume, a sort of a cape, and a stylish pearl-grey suit.

"And this is Mark!" he proclaimed mightily, throwing his hands in the air. "He has my nose."

Mark crossed his eyes to look at his own sloped, pointed nose. He shook his head.

"Then my ears!" Claude bellowed, unperturbed.

Judy laughed.

"Well then, I'm sure he has my eyes." Claude's winked one of his emerald eyes.

Mark tried to wink back with his own bright blue ones. He'd never got the hang of winking, it always became a blink.

"Then we share something inside. Deeper. Oh!" he said, and he dug in his pockets, "I do believe we also share a school."

Mark could scarcely believe his ears, or his eyes. His uncle was holding out a letter, which clearly said upon the sepia, heavy-grain paper in flowing black ink "Mr Mark Jack Williams, Milk Carton Apartments, Kingston, ON, CA".

"I don't know why they called it a milk carton," Uncle Clause said with another jaunty wink at Mark. Mark blushed and his mother paled. "Now why doesn't Mark skeddadle off to his room and read his letter while you an I catch up?" Uncle Claude had his arm around Mark's mother and was already leading her back to the chesterfield, leaving Mark awestruck and quiet, holding a thick envelope that contained his destiny.


	5. 4 A Pointed Stick?

_Dear Mark Jack Williams,_

_Welcome to the Winnowridge Academy family! We are always pleased to be able to add another to our own._

_The school year is fast approaching and every student will need the standard supplies (one wand, sufficient appropriate wizarding attire, a cauldron, quills, parchment, ink, etc.) A book list along with additional information is included inside your acceptance package, and once again, well done! We look forward to seeing you in the new year._

Mark had read the letter three times now and could only come to the conclusion that his strange Uncle Claude was a bit of a practical joker. The quills and parchment and ink he could understand (Mark had never heard of a private school before, let alone seen one - they could worship dragons for all he knew , so the break from the usual pens and paper wasn't that much of a stretch), but the cauldron had no practical purpose. But a magic wand? _Wizarding attire?_ What did that even mean? A cloak with a lot of stars and moons on it and a pointy hat?

This Uncle Claude seemed to have way too much time on his hands. Sure enough, the thick envelope came with attached book list (all of them about magic), a list of school rules (_Number 1: No unauthorized or unsafe use of magic is permitted on or around school property, Number 2: The student is liable for any damage caused by magical or otherwise mischief, Number 3: The misappropriation of school or private property for any means (magic or otherwise) will be strictly punished..._), a brief history of the Academy (eight pages worth, Mark thought in disbelief), plus a hand-drawn map with the school marked as an x, and some wiggly lines besides it that could have either been topographical or waterways, with no landmarks whatsoever, with scrawled directions besides it saying nonsense like "continue over the green patch" and "turn right at the arctic hare" and "if you get lost, tell the griffin that you mean well." Whatever that meant.

Having thoroughly read through the whole envelope, Mark decided it was time to confront his Uncle about the whole business and get his real letter from him (which he would have to have, Mark couldn't see how any man could be so cruel as to give hope without anything in return).

He walked into his living room to find his mother unconscious upon the floor, his uncle standing over her with a stick in his hand.


	6. 5 Have A Cookie

Mark should have called the police. After all, his uncle had just killed his mother while assuring that there were no witnesses because of some strange package.

But his first reaction was, strangely, one of sympathy. He'd once hit his mother with a stick and had got the walloping of his life. He'd almost wished he'd hit her harder, so that the crime and punishment had been more proportionate.

But that was an awfully small stick to knock someone out with...

Then it clicked. This was no joke. No game. His uncle had just magically killed his mother, and would now turn on him for exactly the same purpose.

"Now, why don't you get some cookies from the kitchen and we can talk a little bit." His uncle did not ask.

Mark stood his ground. He was unable to move, though whether it was fear or courage it was hard to say (Mark often wondered what the difference was, except that the incredibly brave seemed incredibly stupid).

Uncle Claude sighed.

"Fine, _I'll_ do it." And with those words he waved the stick and a plate of cookies floated in from the kitchen. It bumped Mark in the hand.

He continued to be still as a statue.

"Well, sit down at least!" Claude said, but rather then futilely waiting for a response he flicked the stick again and one of Mark's overstuffed armchairs came running up like a puppy behind him, knocking his legs out from under him at the knees and returning once move to stillness, leaving mark sitting and more mute then ever.

Claude sat himself down in the chesterfield, now opposite Mark, with an unconscious mother between them.

"So."

Claude waited, then continued.

"I suppose you have... questions?"

There was another pause, but it was Mark this time who broke the silence.

"Why did you kill my mom?"

Claude laughed a big, booming laugh. Somehow he just didn't seem so jolly anymore.

"I didn't kill her, you little scamp! I just stunned her."

"Like that time I tried to raise the frog in the toilet, only the next day it was about 20 frogs?"

"Something like. Will you have a cookie now?"

Mark warily took one, eyed it, and then took a nibble. It seemed alright. But appearances, apparently, got a lot more deceiving as one got older.

"So tell me about this school." He finally said, and ate his cookie in one bite.


	7. 6 The Police

Something happened just then, however, that changed everything.

A loud knock came at the door, followed by a voice.

"It's the Police, , we've got some questions for you."

Uncle Claude's face was grey. It seemed that he had not expected visitors, especially after he had just magically disabled his only sister.

Claude looked to Mark.

"Go pack everything you need. Only what you need, though. Quick!" Claude then put on a high, sticky-sweet voice. "Coming!"

Mark dashed off to his room. Amid a false, shouted conversation between his uncle and the police ("Oh, these hair curlers!" "We don't care Mrs. Williams, we just want to talk to you about the rent you charge!") he asked himself questions. Would he need his Nintendo? No, he would live without Mario and Luigi somehow. What about books? No, they had a reading list at Winnowridge,and he didn't know how much spare time he would have. A sweater? No, the day was hot and it didn't feel like it would get much colder 'till much much later. He ran back to the living room.

"Got everything, Mark?"

He nodded mutely.

Uncle Claude took his hand and lead him to the window. He waved the stick behind him, and whispered "Then let's go!" and jumped out the window, taking Mark with him.


	8. 7 What Dying Feels Like

Mark had never imagined dying would feel like this. He felt like he was getting squeezed through some tiny space, like the elephant through the head of a needle.

He'd never believed all that stairway or highway nonsense, but he couldn't help but wonder why Uncle Claude had just killed them both. He hoped he was going somewhere nice, he'd never really given dying much thought. And then suddenly he was on a busy street, lined with high-end stores and totally unfamiliar. Uncle Claude was still holding his hand.

"Sorry about that. That was... somewhat different than I imagined." Mark nodded. He felt like falling over and not getting up until the world had regained some normalcy, or at least stopped moving. "What did you bring?"

It took Mark some time to realize that Uncle Claude was asking him a question. "Oh, um, nothing really."

"...Not a toothbrush or a pair of socks?"

"Oh. No. It seemed like we needed to leave fast-"

Claude laughed in his booming way and patted him on the back understandingly. He then lead him into the most expensive-looking shop on the road. From what Mark guessed, the less a store held, the more the things inside cost. If that were true, than the wares sold here must cost the whole world - because there was nothing inside the store.

A young female shop attendant greeted them. "And how can I help you today?"

"Oh, just passing through!" Said Claude cheerfully, as he continued to lead Mark into the back of the shop.

It suddenly occurred to mark that it seemed unlikely they would be buying a toothbrush here.

They found themselves come up to a heavy metal door. It's brushed surface was unmarred, and it had no handle, just a lock.

"OPEN SESAME!" Claude bellowed at it, and not only did a handle seem to grow from the door, the door swung open unaided and revealed - another street.

Mark stood there staring for several seconds, jaw dropped as far as it would go.

"It's not a dirty magazine, Mark." Uncle Claude chuckled.

"Huh?"

"Go on, take a step. And then another. If you keep going, you may come out in another world!"

Mark nodded and stepped through the door.


	9. 8 Toronto?

Sorry for length! And typos. Mostly typos. My laptop keyboard is tiny and the spacebar is not friendly. Enjoy!

*~*

Mark was greeted with, at his best guess, a sort of Victorian shopping mall/Chinese supermarket. There were all sorts of unrecognizable things in barrels and crates, unrecognizable, oppressive smells greeted him from every direction, and yet the whole place seemed to be made of tasteful sandstone and brick.

New world all right, Mark thought privately.

"Are we in Toronto?" he asked his Uncle.

His uncle simply laughed and began to lead him through the shops.

All Mark could think was that either this whole day must be real, or his Uncle Claude had put something funny on that cookie. They passed every sort of non-existent shop, with cauldrons and spellbooks and pet shops that had some very weird pets in the window.

Claude, however, steered him into a door Mark would have missed - the building was only a couple inches wider than the already thin door. The brickwork blended in in a way that made the building nearly invisible.

As Mark squeezed through the door, he realized the room didn't widen out at all. The walls were lined with bookcases, and it made it very hard to maneuver the hall.

A bell tinkled in the distance.

Mark came into a very small room, very small for the fact it resided mostly under a rickety staircase. Mark then realized the bookcases weren't filled with books at all, but with long, thin boxes. The staircase seemed to be half made of them. In fact, Mark couldn't seem to see a spot _without_ the boxes.

Mark heard a cascade of clattering and a number of boxes fell down or through the stairs. A head poked down.

"Hi! Can I help you?" An enthusiastic you man's voice emerged from the upside-down face.

Mark suddenly realized that Uncle Claude was not, in fact, behind him as he had supposed.

"Erm... yes? Where am I?"

The head disappeared and a set of feet replaced them.

"Oh, nowhere really. Mind if I take a few measurements, ask you a few questions, that sort of thing?"

"Uh..." began Mark, but the man was already beside him in the blink of an eye, tape measure in hand.

"Right or left?"

"Excuse me?"

"Which hand?" The man said in an exasperatied tone.

"Oh... left."

"Right! Well, I suppose I'd better get in the back and see what we have for you!"

And in the same blink of an eye, he was gone. Mark heard a far-off clatter of falling boxes.

A soft voice came out of no where.

"Will that boy never sit still?"

Mark turned with a jump. A little old lady was sitting on a chair Mark hadn't even seen. She looked soft and white, as though she was made of dust.

"I'm sorry?"

She laughed. Even her laugh seemed too soft to be real.

"Never you mind. You see this box?"

She gently rested her hand on the box beside her, on a stack about thirty high.

"He's going to come back in here spouting some great malarcky. Don't let him get in a word edgewise. Tell him this is the one for you. Oh, here he comes now."

An entire bookcaseful of boxes fell to the ground when the young man appeared this time. Mark looked at the noise, but when he looked back to the woman, she was gone.

The man seemed to have half the stock in his arms. Just as he opened his mouth, Mark yelled out.

"STOP."

The man seemed very taken aback, but he continued to fidget, adjusting his glasses.

While Mark felt the need to pass on the old lady's message, he couldn't stop himself asking,

"Why do you always move?"

The young man laughed.

"Ah, when I was in school another boy set a curse on me. Haven't been the same since."

The man sat down on the recently vacated chair, though his knees and feet always stayed in motion, jiggling and crossing and uncrossing themselves.

"My name's Douglas, Douglas McDonald."

"Mark Williams. Oh, a woman told me to tell you that this is the one I came for." Mark said as he handed Douglas McDonald the box. It was dusty and blue, and had a small crest on it, two elk and a sword.

"A woman?" Douglas asked in a skeptical, amused sort of way. But he opened the box.

A stick. A highly polished, slightly decoratively carved stick.

Douglas looked from Mark to the stick, obviously expecting a somewhat more enthusiastic reception.

"Well, go on then."

Mark picked up the stick.

A warmth started at his fingertips, and made its way through his arm to fill his whole body. It was like coming in from the cold to drink hot chocolate. It was like receiving a gift that you'd always wanted. It was like getting hugged by an old, long-time-since friend.

Mark instinctively swung his arm.

It was like a gold and silver firework had been set off in the room. Douglas clapped his hands excitedly and whooped.

As soon as the light had disappeared, Mark asked,

"What WAS that?"

"That was, unless I'm very much mistaken, your wand."

Mark's sudden elation was replaced with sudden confusion.

"My what?"

"Wand. You know, use it for spells?" Douglas waved his arms around his head for emphasis. "That one's a nice one, my old man made it. That's, um, maple and dragon heartstring."

"WHAT heartstring?"

"Dragon." Douglas paused and took a long, hard look at Mark. "Are you muggleborn? Where are your parents?"

Mark suddenly realized that his mother must still be unconscious on her apartment floor.

"Erm... what now?"

"Hoo boy." Douglas ran his hands nervously through his hair. "How'd you get here? Do you have any money?"

"My Uncle Claude took me. He sort of disappeared, though."

Douglas took Mark's hands and looked him hard in the eye.

"You do know what you, y'know, ARE, though? Right?"

Mark laughed and shrugged.

"I thought it was just a joke. Or I'd eaten something off."

Douglas seemed slightly relieved.

"Well I'll just go look up the price on this, hopefully your Uncle shows up soon."

Douglas took the box and left Mark alone with a wand and a lot of questions.


	10. 9 Word of Honour

Chapter ten? How long has it been since I updated. Sorry, everyone.

Mark spent an uncomfortable hour in the shop, sitting in the vacant chair. Douglas McDonald, the shopkeeper, had popped in and out, checking on him, fidgeting the whole time. Mark kept a firm grip on the box, leaving little indents. It seemed to be the only thing that mattered.

After a long sixty minutes of squirming and peering, a bell rang and Uncle Claude entered the shop himself.

"Well, my boy. Have you found your wand yet?"

Douglas peered his head from around a corner. "First try." He said quietly and demurely.

Uncle Claude put on a contrived look of disbelief. "What?" He smiled. "Why, Douglas McDonald! The man famous for having inherited all of his father's talent in wandmaking, but none of his talent for finding the right wand for the right wizard. Wasn't it just last week that you tried every single wand in the shop for that poor little girl. It's always in the last place you look!"

Mark simply stared down at the dusty box in his hands. It felt warm and natural there, as though it belonged. His whole life had just drastically changed and he had no idea where he belonged in it, so the comfort of the box was well appreciated.

Uncle Claude placed some money on the counter, and they walked out.

Once they had left the shop, Uncle Claude placed a large hand on Mark's shoulder's.

"I'm sorry I left you for so long in there, Mark. Douglas McDonald really is famous for taking forever and a day to sell a wand, and I don't fit so well in there " He clapped his free hand to his large belly and chortled.

Noticing that Mark still seemed quiet, Uncle Claude turned to face him, placing both his hands upon his shoulders, and inclined his head slightly so there were staring eye to eye.

"Look, Mark," he started slowly, "I'm sorry. You have reason to be mad at me. But I want you to know you can trust me from here on in. You have my word of honour. Listen, what do you want to do next? Anything in the world."

Mark wasn't sure what he wanted. He felt as though he had lived several lifetimes in today alone.

"I am a little hungry," he said finally, though he said it slowly. "Could we have some lunch?"

"Of course, my boy!" Uncle Claude was suddenly beside him and back to his jovial self, pushing Mark along the street. "Where do you want to eat? It's your choice!"

Mark was getting dizzy. The bizzare street was even worse at high speeds, and Uncle Claude was only getting faster. He desperately pointed to his right and hoped he had pointed to a place that served food.

Uncle Claude didn't even miss a beat. He merely steered Mark inside at the same breakneck pace.

"Good choice! For a second I thought you had pointed to the bookstore next door, and then I realized what nonsense that was!"


End file.
